


You're fireproof, nothing breaks your heart

by stegrits



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: A little angst, M/M, a little UST somewhat resolved, a little hurt and comfort, a little sparing, also I've not finished season 2 yet, post blade of marmora
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 16:15:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10031042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stegrits/pseuds/stegrits
Summary: Keith uncrosses his arms, but that's his only concession. “Fight me,” he says.“Not tonight,” Shiro replies, automatically. He knows Keith is hurting in more ways than one, and he couldn't add to that, even by accident, even if Keith asks him for it directly.





	

Two nights after meeting the Blade of Marmora, Shiro jolts awake from a nightmare he instantly can't recall. They've all been under so much pressure, so busy with planning and preparation, that he shouldn't be surprised. It's not like this is an uncommon problem of his. 

He presses his real hand to his forehead and his prosthetic one to his heart, letting the difference in sensation help calm his racing pulse. He’s almost getting used to the metal, or maybe he just tells himself that. When his heart rate slows back to normal, he gets up and puts on his training clothes. It's nowhere near morning, but he strongly suspects he's not the only one awake.

Shiro’s right about that, but judging from the way Keith pushes his damp hair out of his eyes when he sees Shiro in the doorway of the training room, he's been at it a while. His hands are wrapped and his cheekbone is bruised green, every line of his body waiting for defusal as he crosses his arms. Two training dummies loom behind him. 

“You're pushing yourself too hard,” Shiro says, probably misjudging which wire to cut. He lets the training room door slide closed behind him. “You need to recover.” As if they both don't remember every blow and cut Keith suffered while looking for answers. Shiro tells himself he doesn't wish he'd taken the hits instead. 

Keith uncrosses his arms, but that's his only concession. “Fight me,” he says. 

“Not tonight,” Shiro replies, automatically. He knows Keith is hurting in more ways than one, and he couldn't add to that, even by accident, even if Keith asks him for it directly. 

But the fuse behind Keith’s eyes is still going, and sometimes it's easier to just let it burn. Shiro's had enough experience to know Keith’s temper is mostly light and not heat. No matter what, he won't be angry in the morning. At least, not about this. 

“What, you're afraid you'll lose?” Keith says with his smirk. If Shiro swallows hard at that, he knows he's too far away for Keith to see. So, maybe he moves closer, almost within striking distance. 

“No, I'm not,” Shiro says honestly. He tries so hard to be honest, even with Keith, especially with Keith. He deserves it. 

“Why’d you come down here if you weren't looking for a fight?” Keith asks, smirk gone. Part of calming Keith down is not taking the obvious bait, dancing instead just outside of it. Shiro is very good at this. 

“Because I knew you'd be here,” Shiro says, and Keith relaxes his shoulders as they consider one another. 

They've done this before, and they haven't. There was a while, before Kerberos, when Shiro sometimes thought he knew what Keith wanted, evident in the curve of his rare smile or an usual softness in his eyes. But doubt has only grown with time, and with change. They're both a little taller, and older, and more scarred. 

“I couldn't sleep,” Keith says, considering the floor between their feet. It's a familiar excuse, one he's used for years. 

Early in their friendship, before they knew one another the way they do now, Shiro suspected Keith felt something like hero worship for him. It would have made him seriously uncomfortable if he hadn't also deeply respected Keith’ abilities, his reckless, determined pursuit of his goals. If time hadn't made them more real to one another. But Shiro wonders now if Keith isn't standing here like his Galra blood is something he can just wring out of himself if he fights hard enough. Like Shiro thinks he can do with his arm. 

Keith is not a monster, or a weapon, or broken or somehow less valuable because of this, and maybe Shiro doesn't have to be any of those things either, but he doesn't know for sure how Keith will react if he says any of that out loud right now. 

“If you really want me to spar with you, I will,” Shiro tells him instead, because sometimes it's easier to give into the stubbornness, to work with it. 

Keith smiles, fire smoldering back to life. 

“I’m ready when you are,” he says. 

Shiro has the advantage of more training, size, and whatever terrible experience he gained as a gladiator. Keith has worked himself up and the adrenaline only makes him faster, but it's easy enough for Shiro to dodge his first half-dozen attempts to drag him to the ground. 

They lock together, Shiro catching Keith’s arm, against his Galra one, over both of their heads. Shiro can feel every bit of heat and tension from Keith’s body, his face flushed and his eyes a glittering almost violet. 

Shiro’s heart rate spikes again. 

He wonders if he should kiss Keith now, or just let him punch him in the face instead. He wants to say something like,  _ do you have any idea how beautiful your eyes are  _ or  _ I thought about you all the time.  _

“You can't fight your opponent if you're fighting yourself,” Shiro manages instead. While Keith uses a fraction of his focus to process this statement, Shiro uses the opportunity to throw him over his hip with about 75 percent of the force he would use on an actual enemy. And Keith, instead of landing flat on his back, uses the momentum to flip himself twice, landing on his feet a few feet away and huffing a laugh. 

“What else you got?” he says, rushing for Shiro before he can reply. But Shiro lets Keith knock himself off balance, and when he tumbles to the ground this time Shiro, gently but firmly, presses his hand in the middle of Keith’s chest. He can feel Keith’s heartbeat, unless it's just his own. 

Keith gives an almost imperceptible nod, so Shiro withdraws his hand and offers it to help him up. Keith won't add to his bruises on Shiro’s account. 

“You're not angry at me,” Shiro says, quickly studying the tired lines around Keith’s eyes. Angry is almost Keith’s default setting, but Shiro can't think of a time he was ever its focus. 

Keith relaxes his shoulders and briefly looks a year younger. 

“I've never been angry at you,” he mumbles, and it's only then Shiro realizes Keith still has a loose grip on his wrist, skin on metal. He wants to say,  _ don't let go  _ or  _ see, I know what it's like.  _

“I know it might seem like something we're short on,” Shiro says instead, “but it takes time to sort through this kind of thing.” He doesn't pull his hand away, afraid Keith might mistake Shiro’s doubt of himself for something even worse. But Keith doesn't so much let go of Shiro’s arm as lets his fingertips slip away. 

It's either the Druids’ handiwork or his own imagination, but Shiro feels every inch of Keith’s skin. He probably should have stayed in his room. Except then Keith would have been down here beating himself up, alone.  

“How much time did it take you to sort through it?” Keith asks, as if Shiro hasn't always been some benchmark he'd convinced himself he couldn't reach. 

“I'm still sorting through it,” Shiro says, because they both know he'd be sound asleep in his bed if he weren't. 

Instead, here they are, considering one another again. Keith cranes his neck and opens his mouth, but he scans Shiro’s face and then doesn't say anything. Shiro wonders if Keith felt his heartbeat too. 

“Same time tomorrow?” Keith says finally, the fire banked and hemmed in with careful tending. 

“Some of us need our sleep, you know,” Shiro says, trying not to laugh. 

“What, just because you're going gray, you're getting old and soft too?” Keith teases, and he has to stand almost on his tiptoes to ruffle the front of Shiro’s hair. That does make him laugh, and he's surprised by how good it feels. Keith making jokes about anything is rare enough to deserve appreciation. 

Keith's hand hovers next to Shiro’s cheek for a second longer than it needs to. 

“I …” Shiro starts, but then he focuses on Keith’s knuckles. “You're bleeding,” he finishes, voice purposely neutral as he gingerly pulls Keith’s fingers down to eye level. There's a few spots of blood where the wrapping has loosened, and the sight of it sends Shiro into the calm place from which he directs both battles and triage. 

“I have a first aid kit in my room,” he says, voice still even. Keith looks like he's considering rolling his eyes. 

“I just reopened a cut, that's all,” he says as Shiro gives him his hand back. 

“Humor me,” Shiro asks. “I'm getting old.”

Keith does roll his eyes this time, but he also follows Shiro without protest. They walk in the introspective silence both of them are so comfortable with, through the dim, peaceful corridors of the castle. When they get to his room, Shiro only turns on one of the lights and motions for Keith to sit on the bed. The first aid kit is neatly tucked on a shelf, and once he grabs it Shiro kneels in front of Keith without really thinking about it. 

But Keith offers Shiro his hand without saying anything, so Shiro focuses on that instead. He unwraps the bandage using the absolute minimum amount of force and sets it aside. The bleeding has already stopped, but Shiro is meticulous.

“You should take better care of yourself,” he chides, breathing over Keith’s scraped skin and reaching for the disinfectant. 

“That's what I have you for,” Keith says, voice quiet but clear through what must be a pretty decent sting, and when Shiro finally looks up he thinks Keith might actually be blushing. 

“Don't fight what you feel,” Shiro says after a few seconds, because apparently all he can do now is expound sage advice he hasn't taken yet. He exchanges the disinfectant for a new bandage and applies himself to rewrapping Keith’s hand as carefully as he can. “You can channel it into something stronger.” 

He inspects his work and then looks up again to find Keith is closer than he expected, his eyes huge and shadowed by the faint light

“I'm trying,” Keith says, only a little strained, and then he leans in just a few more inches and kisses Shiro right on the mouth like it's that easy. 

Keith’s lips are hot, and his uninjured hand finds its way to the shaved nape of Shiro’s neck, and for a few seconds Shiro honestly thinks he's having a heart attack. He could easily think of 50 worse ways to go. 

They part gently, Keith not letting go of Shiro’s neck and Shiro realizing he's carefully entwined their fingers together, even unconsciously trying to avoid causing Keith pain. 

They look at each other not as monsters, victims or paladins, but just as two beat up people trying the best they can. Then they meet again in the middle, Shiro leaning up and Keith leaning down. 

_ I don't care what you are, I know who you are,  _ Shiro murmurs to the curve of Keith’s unbruised cheek, then the almost unbearably warm hollow of his neck. 

This is so new, and it isn't. 

_ I never thought you were dead, not even for a second,  _ Keith whispers with his head resting over Shiro’s heart, then the scars where man meets metal. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed first Voltron fic because I have a feeling there'll be a few more to come. The title is from Fireproof, by The National. You can come talk to me on tumblr as saintgrits.


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